


And Now For Something Completely Different

by obstinatrix



Category: Monty Python RPF
Genre: First Time, M/M, Oxford, University
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-29
Updated: 2015-07-29
Packaged: 2018-04-11 21:02:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4452251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obstinatrix/pseuds/obstinatrix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael can't remember when he first became aware of John, but one evening in Oxford after a play, he gets to know him properly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Now For Something Completely Different

**Author's Note:**

  * For [seutedeern](https://archiveofourown.org/users/seutedeern/gifts).



He couldn't remember, at this point, the first time he'd become aware of John. It was more sort of the case that everyone who moved in their circles was aware of John, because John was about six foot nine or something and could always be spotted either onstage or off, and moreover he seemed to be in everything.  So when John (Tall John, Michael called him in his mind because remembering surnames was for public school) -- when John caught his arm after the show and said, "You were great -- come for a pint?" Michael didn't waste time trying to remember how the hell they actually knew each other. Everyone knew Tall John, who had the sort of voice that made everything sound as if it might become a joke at any time, so Michael just grinned and said,  "Let me get my coat."

In actuality he'd been a little underwhelmed by the script himself, so it was nice to get a compliment, no matter its provenance.  As they made their way down Beaumont Street to St Giles, a gaggle of them wrapped up against the cold and looking like a bunch of ambulatory Scout sleeping-rolls, he decided a compliment from someone like John was the best kind of all.

It was March already, but the chill showed little sign of abating, the cold going on and on. Another two months and it would be May, but you wouldn't think it. He muttered as much to John, and got a laugh in return and a loose, "Is it usually warm by May? I can't have been paying much attention."

"Well," said Michael, reasonably, "it's my birthday in May, and it's usually warm for that."

"Lucky you," John said. His voice was dry, but his eyes were warm, assessing. "Mine's October, never fails to be shit. And how old will you be in May, then?"

All of a sudden there was a schoolteacher edge to the voice,  and Michael self consciously pulled up his shoulders.  "Oh, uh. Twenty." He pulled a face. "Next thing you know I'll be dead, eh?"

"God, I hope not. I'll be twenty four this year." A big laugh, then, to Michael's very great relief; and yes, it did make sense that John was older,  one of the boys shoved around the system for a bit when they gave up the draft and the universities found themselves swamped. It made sense, but it made Michael feel extraordinarily young by comparison.

Before he could say anything, though,  John nudged his arm and raised an eyebrow. "Now, none of that, all right? Hurts my feelings when I get rejected in my old age; I'm not senile yet, you know." He grinned, and suddenly Michael was trying not to wonder at what John had shoved into those three and a half years between them, how much closer to a man he was. The grin was a nice one, a bit dirty, and Michael hoped the cold was cancelling out the pink in his cheeks.

The White Horse was packed when they reached it, people spilling out onto the pavement; the Cambridge blokes complained good naturedly and the chap at the front told them to shove it, there was another pub just across the road. By the time they'd all pushed themselves inside the King's Arms, Michael's teeth were chattering.

"Here." John reached a long arm through the press of people and caught Michael firmly by the elbow, hauling him bodily towards the bar. "Benefits of being ludicrously tall: you can always catch the barman's eye first. Pint?"

"Oh, uh," said Michael, which John rightly took as a yes; he ordered eight pints on his fingers with enviable ease, and soon enough Michael found himself being shuffled into a corner between John on one side and a couple of vaguely familiar Cambridge types on the other. He wasn't entirely sure his feet were even touching the ground.

"Too bloody hot in here," Terry grumbled, wedging himself into a seat. One of the Cambridge blokes -- John's friend, Michael thought; they'd definitely met before, although the name escaped him -- raised both eyebrows.

"Rather too hot than too cold, I tell you," he said, and then nudged John in the side as if he'd made a joke. "Eh?"

John smirked, and Michael sighed internally. In-jokes were never any fun when you'd missed their inception, and he braced himself to be left out of the conversation.

"Michael," John said, immediately rattling his expectations, "you know Graham? Graham, Michael. Wasn't he good?"

"Oh, ace," said Graham, sounding sincere, and reached over the table to shake Michael's hand with what his father would have termed a Good Firm Grip. The rest of Graham was not father-approved material, really; he had floppy fair hair that fell in his face and he had a look that said there was always an in-joke going on with him somewhere. But he seemed nice enough, and Michael shook back, feeling pleased to be included.

"We should think about writing some stuff together," John said. He was toying one-handed with a beermat, twirling it restlessly between the fingers of his left hand; Michael felt his attention drawn there inexorably, watching John shred little bits off the end of the mat with casual dexterity. "I mean God knows I should be thinking about my Finals, but…"

"But he's going to come back as an egg next year and start from scratch again, so why bother?" put in Graham. "Better off doing something useless and entertaining, honestly."

Between the two of them, they were more than a little overwhelming. It sometimes took Michael a little while to warm up to new people, especially in groups, but with this lot he felt like he fitted, oddly; and by the time Graham excused himself and slunk over to the bar, there was half a (probably useless) sketch on the back of John's beermat and Michael's face hurt a bit from grinning.

"Oh, there he goes," John said dryly, tossing back the remnants of his beer. "Secret handshake time."

"Hmm?" Michael looked back over his shoulder. At the bar, Graham was apparently in deep conversation with a lanky young man in a college scarf; he looked back to John still uncomprehending, and John's wry grin made him feel, once more, all three and a half years of their age difference.

"He's picking him up," he explained, with the sort of casualness that only ex-public schoolboys in an Oxford pub could possibly throw out like that. "Any minute, they'll -- yes -- well, I hope he knows the way back to the train station, that's all."

Michael shook his head as if to clear it, watching sidelong as Graham and his new acquaintance slipped out of the pub and into the frigid night. "Does he do that a lot?"

John lifted a shoulder. "All the time, but can't say I blame him. Blokes are easy. Meanwhile the rest of us poor chumps are trying to hack into Cape Canaveral every time a bird catches our eye across a crowded lecture theatre…" He raised his eyes dramatically to the heavens, and then smirked. "Another pint?"

Two pints later, and most of the rest of the group had also somehow sloped away without Michael quite noticing where to or when. The pub was half empty, everybody waiting on last orders, and he and John were in deep with an idea they'd doubtless have forgotten entirely by morning, but that was all right. John was paying attention to every stupid word that came out of Michael's mouth, and the rapt look on his face made Michael feel godlike, the way great orators of the classical world must have felt; and when the bell rang for chucking-out time, it seemed obvious enough to suggest, "Do you want to come back to my rooms? I only live five minutes from here."

"Yes, all right," John said, and reached for his scarf. "Glad you asked; I was going to have to sneak in the window, otherwise. God forbid we organise anywhere to stay in advance."

Brasenose from the King's Arms was five minutes if you walked slowly, and it wasn't exactly slow-walking weather, so Michael didn't have very much time to wonder what kind of state he'd left his room in before he was holding the late gate open for John and fumbling around for his keys. The sense of relief he felt when he'd found the lightswitch and unveiled a room with no more clutter than a gown thrown across the back of the desk chair was enormous, although he knew John probably wouldn't have given a shit.

"I do like sleeping on other people's floors," John declared airily, yanking off his coat. "It's the only time I'm not constantly feeling anxious about being too tall for the bed, you know."

There was a pile of cushions in the corner by the windowseat, and John tossed himself down onto it without ceremony. For such a tall person, he did everything with a strange unconcern, flopping onto nearby surfaces without a moment's consideration of whether or not they'd contain him. Possibly he was just too used to not quite fitting anywhere that it didn't even come as a surprise any more. Besides, the floor was certainly big enough.

Michael hovered awkwardly by the door. He could feel the pull of the beer, now, but it had only reached the point of making him over-eager, rather than tired, and he wasn't entirely sure how to go on from here. "Um...do you want to sleep? I can get --"

"God, no." John waved a hand dismissively and then patted the cushion beside him. "Pull up a floorboard, there's a good chap. Have you got any more booze?"

"No-o, I --"

"Thought not." Out went the hand again, this time into the inside pocket of John's blazer, and came back out with an honest-to-god hipflask. "Whisky suit you?"

Several swallows later, Michael decided, as he gazed up at his slowly moving ceiling, that whisky suited him very well indeed. Stretched out on the floor with one hand tucked under his head, he was pleasantly aware of John's warm length beside him, extending right around him like a human bracket. The sketch still seemed like a terribly good idea, and Michael grinned to himself, proud.

"Do you ever think," he mused, "it'd be nice just to stay here forever? You know, doing plays and things, going to lectures. Never having to grow up and be a banker or whatnot."

"I never think," John said firmly. "But then, I knock about with Graham, so."

That rang a bell somewhere in the back of Michael's mind, something he'd wanted to ask but hadn't dared before. Carefully, he shifted onto his side so he could see John's face. The moonlight filtered in through the open curtains, catching the strong line of John's nose, the dark shadows of his lashes on his cheeks. "It never bothers you, that he's so…" Michael sought about drunkenly for the right word. "...obvious? What people might think. Of you."

"Oh, honestly." John shot him a look and grinned. "Not pretty enough, darling, am I? Nobody thinks anything." On the cushions, he shifted and stretched, muscles pulling long and slow like a cat. "Anyway, I don't care. He tried it on with me once, in first year; might have gone with it except he'd waited right until I was about to run off and be sick. So."

They both giggled at that. Michael licked his lips. He could feel the tease in their words heavy at the back of his skull, a question lingering in his mouth that he'd never have dared formulate if it hadn't been for all the whisky. But he was nearly twenty, after all, and they were halfway to the question already. It wasn't as if he fancied John, not exactly, not like fancying girls. It was just that there was something between them, some lyrical pull, that made him want something he couldn't put his finger on; made him at least want to needle at it like toying with a loose tooth. It would have been a shame not to push just a little, when no harm could come of it.

"Have you ever…?"

He was smiling around the words, letting them hang in the air for John to read as he might. Even Michael wasn't entirely sure what the end of the question was; he only knew that when the world suddenly shifted, John rolling over and up onto one elbow, it seemed like the answer he'd wanted.

"School," John said, "but not this, much."

"Not what?"

John kissed him. It was soft for a second, questioning, and then Michael drew in his breath and it wasn't soft any more. His hand came up of its own accord, fisting into John's hair, and the reeling dizziness behind his eyes only made it better when John nudged his mouth open, let their lips slide together. It wasn't like kissing girls -- for what little experience he'd had with that. It wasn't anything like, either, being held still and tongued at by sixth-form boys when he was thirteen and frightened out of his mind, putting his hand where he was told and waiting for it to be over. Strangely, this was far less awkward than either of those things, just letting John kiss him slowly in the dark on the floor of his college rooms. The warmth of it spread through him like water, and his mind went beautifully blank of everything but wanting it to go on.

"All right?" John, damn him, was seemingly less drunk than Michael was, sober enough to pull back and seek him out with searching eyes. Michael made a soft sound of discontent and tugged at his hair again.

"Yes, shut up, just --"

"All right," John said, half-laughing, and nipped Michael's lip as if in assurance before he sank back into it again, curling his tongue up behind Michael's front teeth to that place that made him squirm with pleasure.

After that, things seemed to devolve swiftly. One moment, Michael was helplessly arching his back, simultaneously hoping for John to come closer and too shy to push, and the next, John had one long thigh between both of his and there was no space left between one kiss and the next, just the firm pressure of muscle between Michael's legs and a rising groan of contentment at the back of his throat.

"I bet," John said, and kissed Michael's neck, "if -- dammit --"

"Mmm," Michael agreed breathlessly, holding John still long enough to get a mouth on his collarbone; he didn't much care what John was betting about and it had taken him minutes already to get these collar buttons undone.

Kissing, as it turned out, was kissing, whether it was Michael trying carefully not to offend some girl in a car, or Michael on his back with John sucking on his tongue. Seemingly John was good enough at the kissing to make up for the lack of other attributes Michael usually found to be pleasing, or at least, he was painfully aware of being rock-hard against John's thigh and rocking at it helplessly.

"There," John said, breathless; he braced an arm one side of Michael's head and the next moment was grinding down with renewed leverage, pinioning Michael firmly to the floorboards. "Stuff being grown up if you can't, oh fuck --"

That was what Michael had been waiting for, the stuttering curse in John's voice that gave him courage to surge up and crook a leg over the backs of John's thighs, pushing their bodies together. Finally, Michael could feel the hot length of John against his abdomen and it drove a shudder through him, one hand fumbling for John's hair again, wanting the mouth on his, the oblivion.

"Tell me if you don't," John said, breath hot in the crook of Michael's neck; he assumed that there had originally been a second part to the question, but then John's big hand was between them, his thumb pressing down on the zip of Michael's jeans, and that put paid to finding out the rest. Michael bit his lip, arched up, and John made a dark hot sound of approval, found the top of the zip and tugged.

"That's it," John said, as Michael's jeans found their way down over the spurs of his hipbones; the relief of the pressure on his cock was enough that he groaned aloud, grappling for John's waistband.

"Now you," he muttered, and John half-laughed, flicked his own zip down with one thumb and got an arm between Michael and the carpet, one big palm flattening in the sweat-damp small of his back.

"Don't get ahead of me." John shifted, tugged, and then Michael felt it, the smooth bare skin of John's abdomen against his own and their sweat damp thighs freed from their jeans; the stiff length of John's dick against his own. Another time, perhaps, he would have worried about things like comparing but they were too close for anything like that just now, and even with the whisky dulling his senses, Michael had to bite his lip not to shout out as John ground their hips together.

"There we go," John said, and it struck Michael as incredibly unfair that he should still be able to make words at all, let alone while fucking Michael hard into the floor like this, the two of them breathless and grappling and half out of their clothes. He reached up, tugged down with arms and legs both; and yes, that was it, John's mouth warm in the crook of his neck and their dicks sliding slickly between their bodies, all sweat and friction.

"C'mon," Michael muttered, as if to prove a point of his continuing grasp on the English language. He fisted a hand in the back of John's t-shirt, arched his back and tugged and the shudder that tore through John's body seemed to light his nerves on fire. Another thrust, and he couldn't tell any more which one of them had come first or was still coming, just that they were wet and hot and still thrusting helplessly through the mess they'd made, and John's fingernails were pressing hard into Michael's flesh.

They uncurled, eventually. John rolled off, but the momentary panic Michael felt was swiftly quelled when John stretched a hand over and settled it lightly on Michael's stomach, toying with the puddle of slick.

"Hmm," John said, his voice hoarse and rasping in the back of his throat. Michael wondered if he'd sound the same. "Well, now I'm sleepy."

"You ass!" Michael poked him in the ribs, not hard, and felt the corners of his mouth curving up in response to John's laughter. His shoulders wouldn't thank him in the morning for this long spent on the floor. He ought to get up, clean up, but the aura of John beside him continued to be a warm pull, and somehow he didn't want to move. "Was that…?"

"Don't start worrying about it," John said, correctly reading the tilt in Michael's tone. His hand shifted, slightly, and when Michael's came down tentatively to meet it, John twined their fingers together. "It's just a bit of fun, all right? It's allowed." He squeezed, and Michael let himself squeeze back.

"All right," he said, and John nodded, firmly enough to make Michael notice it in the darkness.

"Good boy. Listen to your elders." With his free hand, he groped for his jacket; Michael dimly registered the extraction of a tissue from another inner pocket. "Now. Clean-up imperative, bed optional. What do you say?"

It was nearly ten before Michael woke up, splayed out on the carpet with John's arm draped companionably across his waist. He couldn't quite remember having made the decision, but still he was sure enough he'd made the right one.

  
  
  
  
  



End file.
